


Golf Partner

by LarkONeill



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: And I'm a sucker for The Bet trope, F/M, I really needed them to play golf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 22:59:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13445214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LarkONeill/pseuds/LarkONeill
Summary: A friendly game of golf leads to a steamy encounter— literally.





	Golf Partner

“Why’d you ask if I play golf?”

Huh. That is not what Ginny expected when she saw Lawson’s name on her caller ID. It’s been more than a year since Trevor told her to find a friend and let them in, because “even the most famous woman on the planet needs a golf partner.”

But her question has been swirling around Mike’s brain a lot. With the season over and done for a couple weeks now, they haven’t seen each other, save for a coffee date —not a date _date_ but— last Tuesday. And he’s kinda sorta dying to hang out again. 

Because she’s his batterymate. And his friend. His best friend, really. And people hang out with their best friends. His urge to spend time with her has nothing to do with her dimples or her mile-long legs or the way her tongue sneaks out of her mouth when she’s concentrating. 

Nope, none of that. He just misses his rookie. 

Around this time last year, Ginny was injured and determined to get off the DL and back into the Padres lineup. She dedicated herself 110 percent to rehab, and Mike was by her side every step of the way. They logged a ridiculous amount of time together and now… There’s no built-in excuse to be in each other’s orbit. 

Then Mike sees a promo for ESPN’s 30 for 30 about Arnold Palmer, takes it as a sign, and immediately calls Baker’s cell.

“No reason, just curious,” she answers, not wanting to get into specifics. “I’m surprised you remember that. Maybe senility hasn’t completely addled your mind.”

“Haha, very funny.” He can hear her smiling through the phone. “I haven’t played a lot, mostly charity games, but I’m a natural,” he says, all cocky self-assurance. 

“Really,” Ginny replies. It’s more a comment than a question. 

“Yes, _really_. I’d kick your perfect, pear-shaped ass on the links, Rookie.” 

This prompts a snort. “I’d like to see you try.”

“Great, how ‘bout tomorrow?

“It’s _on_ ,” Ginny says, and immediately starts Googling golf courses in San Diego.

* * *

It’s 2 p.m. when they hit the green at Tecolote Canyon Golf Course, about 10 miles from Petco. Tec’s website promises hazards on almost every hole, “providing an excellent tee-to-green experience.” And a pain in Mike’s ass at the moment.

He just sent a ball sailing into the creek that runs through the course.

“Dammit!” he growls. The misstep knocks him off his game, and soon he and Baker are tied. It all comes down to a low punch shot. 

Ginny uses a hand to shield her eyes from the sun as she looks across the fairway. “Yeah, no,” she says, drawing out each vowel.

“So little faith,” Mike tuts.

But even Stevie Wonder could see that this is not an easy shot. To make it, he has to get the ball up and over a sycamore tree. He figures that with a big enough swing he can pop the gap wedge high enough to clear it.

“Fine. If you’re so convinced you’ve got this, let’s make it interesting,” Ginny says, wetting her upper lip.

“A bet?” 

“Yup.”

“Ok,” Mike says breezily. “Loser buys the winner dinner.”

“That’s not very interesting.”

“Then what do you suggest?” 

Ginny pauses for a split second. “If I win, you have to get rid of the beard.”

“Nope, not on the table.”

“Why not?” she whines.

“Because I said so.”

“Really, Lawson?”

“Rookie, I can’t get rid of the beard. The ladies love it. You love it,” he says, a smile sneaking over his face. 

“I do not love it.”

“You just haven’t experienced it in all its glory,” he says with a wink and her face pinks. 

Comments like that and, of course, the almost-kiss in front of Boardner’s aside, Ginny and Mike’s relationship is platonic. She has a code. And neither player can afford to have a romance between them go south. But there’s no denying that after her injury they did get close. Closer than ever, for reasons not everyone understands.

The massive frustration an uncooperative body brings, the cold, sweaty fear that comes with knowing you might lose the very thing you’ve sacrificed _everything_ else for— Lawson knows all of that firsthand. 

He got it. Noah did not. 

Ginny’s fling with the tech billionaire didn’t even last a week after her rookie season abruptly ended. And Mike’s reconciliation with Rachel fizzled out soon after. She resented the way he threw himself into the pitcher’s recovery, thought that energy should have been devoted to fixing them.

Despite being caught off guard by Lawson’s comment, Ginny recovers quickly. “C’mon, Old Man. You chicken?”

“Hardly,” he says, cocking his head to the side. “Ok, let’s say I agree to this. What happens if _you_ lose?”

Ginny shrugs. “I buy you dinner?”

“Shelling out a couple hundred bucks—”

“A couple hundred bucks?!” 

“Where do you think we’re eating, Baker? McDonald’s?” Regardless,” he continues, “that is not on par, pun in-tended, with losing facial hair that’s been cultivated—”

“Cultivated? Is it a crop now?”

Lawson narrows his eyes at her and after 7 seconds or so offers his hand.

“Whatever. There’s no way I’m not making this shot,” he says as they shake on it.

He then carefully considers his task, walking this way and that, crouching beside the tee several times to view the shot from multiple angles. (And Ginny’s eyes go right to his tight, khaki-covered ass because obviously.) Finally, with a grimace, he stands and grabs his club.

His swing is solid, but the ball catches a branch high up in the tree and ends up right back where it started. 

“Fuck!” he shouts.

Ginny grins but doesn’t gloat. Taking the piss out of Lawson just isn’t fun when he’s legit angry. Slowly, he turns to her, hand rubbing over the lower half of his face.

“Baker, you can’t really expect me to shave this.”

“No, I can’t.”

He exhales loudly. “I knew you wouldn’t—”

“That’s why I’m going to,” she interrupts.

“Pardon?”

“I’m gonna shave your beard,” she declares, smile a mile wide.

“Um no, Rookie, you’re not. I’ve seen the way you peel oranges.”

“What?” she says, screwing up her face. “What does that even— Lawson, I’ve been shaving for years.”

“Your face?” he asks with mock surprise.

“No. Places that are much more sensitive than my _face_ ,” she says, raising a brow.

That shuts him up. 

“What do you have against my facial hair anyway?” Before she can say she doesn’t actually have anything against it, just thinks he’s oddly attached to it, he weighs in. 

“You wanna know if the handsome face that graced your bedroom wall is still there, under all this,” he says, stroking his beard and looking way too pleased with himself.

Ginny rolls her eyes so hard they might get stuck. “For the 50 millionth time, I did not have your poster on my wall.”

“Ceiling, whatever.”

“Oh my god,” she groans.

* * *

Over a meal at Oscars Mexican Seafood, Mike gets right to it. 

“So when are you planning to take a razor to my face?” he asks between bites of fish taco.

Ginny hadn’t really thought through the logistics. Didn’t actually expect to win against him, honestly.

“I could wait until the season starts, make you play beardless,” she says with a smirk. “But you know how we Millennials are— all about that instant gratification. So the sooner the better.”

“Is today soon enough for you?”

“Yeah,” Ginny says, clearly surprised.

“If you promise not to make a mess, or post a video to Instagram, I’ll let you do it at my house.”

“Your house?”

“If someone sees me coming out of your hotel room, they might get the wrong idea, Rook,” he says matter of factly and turns his attention back to his food. 

“True,” Ginny says slowly. 

“We’ve really gotta get you outta that place, Baker.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Ev’s all over me, too.”

Ginny’s UCL injury was a searing reminder that nothing in this life is guaranteed. And with her future up in the air —like, _really_ up in the air— moving out of the Omni and making a home somewhere just didn’t seem wise, so she’d stayed. But with another season lined up, it’s time to relocate.

She says as much to Lawson and the conversation turns to real estate— the pros and cons to condos and houses, which San Diego neighborhoods are best and so on.

Once the check is paid, they head to his SUV. He opens the passenger door and gently closes it once she’s inside. The first time he did that (last year when he drove her to an appointment with her orthopedic specialist), she was a little taken aback. But when she thought about it, she had to admit that Lawson _is_ pretty much a perfect gentleman— always walking on the outside of the sidewalk, letting her sit down first whenever they’re out at a bar and whatnot.

But he also has a habit of being a real asshole when he doesn’t get his way. He gives Ginny shit about her taste in music the entire drive to La Jolla, and threatens to make her walk if she subjects him to another Drake song. (She vaguely wonders if his aversion is strictly musical or if it has anything to do with that bottle of Dom Drake sent her a million years ago.)

“Ah, The Glass Castle,” she says when they finally pull into Lawson’s driveway. Ginny’s only been to his house once, but that’s what she’s called it ever since. The place practically begs for a nickname. 

“You ever think about moving?” she asks, as Mike opens her door.

“Sometimes,” he says, looking over her shoulder and appearing to get lost in thought. “But I’ve had some good times here.”

“I bet you have,” Ginny says a bit gruffer than she intended and makes her way toward the house. Once they’re inside she casually leans against the kitchen island and tries not to show obvious interest in her surroundings. She didn’t really get a good look around on team poker night —hadn’t ventured further than the game room, the kitchen, or the first-floor bathroom— and her curiosity is killing her. 

Slowly her eyes drift to the open staircase leading to the second floor. She’d never admit it to anyone, but she’s spent many, many nights thinking about Lawson’s house. Or, more accurately, the things they could do against all that glass. He could fuck her in full view of—

“Drink?” he asks, grabbing a Stella out of the fridge.

With an almost imperceptible head shake, Ginny shifts her gaze back to Lawson. “Sure,” she says, taking the bottle.

“Just one for now,” he says. “I’d like to walk away from this without a million nicks on my mug. This face” he continues, pointing to it for emphasis, “is worth a fortune.”

“Uh huh.”

“Baker—”

“Lawson, I got this. So little faith,” she says, tossing his words back at him and poking a finger into his chest. It hits her then that they’re all alone. In his house. His literal glass house. (She’s been _dying_ for a reason to say “people who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones” but no dice.)

“You want the grand tour?” he asks, taking a swig of his beer.

“Sure,” she says, willfully ignoring the goosebumps on her arms.

The tour starts outside by the pool, moves to the pool house, and returns to the first floor. Judging by everything Ginny’s seen so far, his decor is tasteful and definitely not cheap, but it’s not pretentious either. This pleases her for reasons she doesn’t really understand.

When they end up back in the kitchen, Lawson gestures toward the staircase. On the way up she can feel his eyes on her, but they reach the top before she has time to get self-conscious. 

There are a few spare bedrooms and bathrooms decorated in neutral colors, like the rest of the house, then they come to Lawson’s room. The king size bed and walk-in closet give it away. 

“If these walls could talk...” he says with a smug smile.

“Ew.” Ginny’s face looks like she just bit into a lemon and Mike chuckles.

“Guess we’ll be doing this in there,” he says, pointing to the en suite bathroom. Ginny ventures inside and is immediately impressed. It has a double vanity and the sickest steam shower and Whirlpool bathtub she’s ever seen.

“Don’t be surprised if you come home one day and I’m just, like, chillin’ in your tub.”

Mike’s eyes widen a little and he clears his throat. “Pretty sure that’s breaking and entering, Rookie.” 

“Not if I have a key,” she says in a sing-song voice. 

“Someone’s already drunk.”

“Whatever,” she sighs, hands on hips. “You ready for this, Mountain Man?” 

“Mountain Man?”

“The beard, the flannel shirts. It’s fitting, trust me.”

“Then why do you always call me Old Man?”

Ginny shrugs. “More insulting?”

Mike just rolls his eyes. “So how’s this goin’ down?” he asks, and looks around the bathroom as if it might give him the answer. 

“Well I’m gonna need a few things. Washcloth, shaving cream, a shaving brush,” she says, ticking them off on her fingers. “You don’t have a straight razor, do you?” 

“I do,” he says slowly. “But since I’m not trying to bleed to death on my bathroom floor—”

“I know how to use a straight razor.”

“Mm hmm,” he says disbelievingly. 

“I’m serious, Lawson. There’s this thing the kids use. It’s called YouTube.”

“Christ, how long have you been thinking about this?”

“Oh my god, you really are a narcissist,” she says, clearly exasperated. “Not everything I do revolves around you, you know.” He goes to say something but she keeps talking.

“Straight razors give you a closer shave and there’s less irritation. _And_ even though you spend a lot of money up front on a razor, it lasts a lifetime. That’s why I started using one to shave my legs.”

Yeah, ok, Mike’s intrigued. But wary. “How many times have you actually used it?”

“I don’t know,” Ginny says, barely masking her annoyance. “I started using it about two years ago, I shave year-round. You do the math.”

“Fine,” he says, but it’s obvious he’s still not feeling it. Any of it.

“Look, if this is really bothering you—”

“No, it’s fine” he says, mouth turning up at the corners. “Clearly making me resemble the Mike Lawson of your youth is important to you.”

Ginny exhales loudly. “You’re the worst, you know that? You couldn’t be more wrong, actually.” Then, softly, she adds, “The Mike Lawson I know is a lot better than anything I ever imagined as a kid.” 

Mike raises his eyebrows at that. “You _did_ have my poster!”

“Enough!” Ginny says and launches a hand towel at his head. “Get what I asked for or I’ll start poking around here myself, and I know you don’t want that.”

Mike shrugs. “I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m an open book, Ginny.” 

They make direct eye contact then, but for several seconds neither says another word.

Lawson’s the one to break the silence, mutters something about finding a washcloth and cuts out of the room. Ginny’s hands curl around the counter as she leans against it, mind whirring. “Nothing to hide? What does that even mean? And _Ginny_? The only other time he’s called me Ginny is that night at Boardner’s. What—?”

Mike’s voice interrupts her internal freakout. “Here,” he says, handing her the washcloth she asked for and a bath towel, which prompts a questioning look. 

“You’re totally gonna make a mess,” he says.

Ginny doesn’t engage and instead asks for his electric clippers, shaving products and accessories. When everything is laid out on the countertop, she turns to Lawson. “Stand over the sink, please.”

Once he’s in position, she immediately starts running the clippers over his beard to get rid of the bulk. As the dark hairs fall into the sink, she glances up at him to gauge his displeasure. Surprisingly he seems just fine.

As if reading her mind, he says, “Were you expecting me to cry?”

“No,” she says quickly. “I just…” The sentence dies on her lips. “Why’d you start growing this thing, anyway?”

Lawson sucks in a deep breath. “After Rachel and I split, I wanted a change. You know how some women cut their hair after a breakup? I grew a beard.” 

“Ok, so why did you _keep_ it?” Ginny asks, smiling as she drags the clippers over his chin.

“I didn’t want to look like the guy I was when I was with her,” he says. Then quieter, “The guy who neglected his wife and pushed her into another man’s arms.” 

Wow, yeah, Ginny was _not_ expecting that. He’s looking right at her and he’s so close. It’s a lot, so she says the only thing she can think of: “It takes two, Mike.”

Now _he_ seems surprised— by his first name or what she said or both, she’s not sure. She’s never called him Mike to his face and they’ve never really talked about his marriage. Or Rachel, in anything other than a professional context. Which is kind of weird, but there’s a lot about them that’s...kind of weird. 

“Here, sit on the counter,” Ginny says, changing the subject. “And put this over yourself,” she adds, handing Mike the bath towel.

He does as he’s told and Ginny starts rinsing the clippings out of the sink, expression devoid of emotion— it’s a face Mike recognizes immediately. The same one she wears on the mound, and it’s strangely comforting. He needs her focused if she’s gonna be wielding a straight razor so close to his carotid. Jesus, this day has really gotten away from him.

Steam from the hot water running out of the faucet gets his attention. Baker’s holding the washcloth under a steady stream and squeezing water out of it at the same time. 

“I’m just gonna...” Ginny mutters, moving toward him and parking herself between his legs. They’re eye to eye, and Mike is suddenly very aware of how quiet his house is. 

“A hot towel? I’m impressed,” Lawson says, as she places the cloth over his face. “Is that Vicks?” he asks, inhaling.

“Yeah. It’ll soften up your beard.” 

“Wondered why you wanted that,” he mumbles. Ginny turns and he notices a bit of acne along her hairline. Looking at Baker this close up with no one else around feels creepy for some reason, so he closes his eyes. 

Bad idea.

Without sight, it’s like his other senses are heightened, so when she starts running her fingers across his whiskers, his eyes fly open. He’s visibly startled, which startles Ginny and she takes a step back. 

“You ok?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he answers, but the look on Baker’s face says she’s not buying it. “I’m fine,” he lies. He can’t honestly tell her that, if the twitch he felt at her touch is any indication, the nerve endings on his face are seemingly hardwired to his dick at the moment.

“I was just trying to find the grain, so I can shave with it, not against it,” she explains.

“Good idea,” he says, then realizes he’s still nodding like a damn bobblehead and fixes his gaze on the clock behind her. 

He’s alright until she starts applying shaving cream. The shaving brush means she isn’t directly touching him, but her nearness alone is disconcerting. She’s close enough that he can feel her breath on his face and when she moves he gets a whiff of something clean —her deodorant?— and something else that’s distinctly Ginny. 

“It’s time,” she sings, holding the razor at eye level. “Last chance to back out.”

“And stop myself from being filleted by my teammate?”

“You’re smiling, but I think your half serious.”

“Oh, I’m totally serious.”

“Whatever, Old Man. I got skills. You’ll see,” she grins.

With that, Ginny resumes her position between Mike’s thighs. He glances down and, yep, her crotch is just inches from his. This is going to be the longest fucking shave of his life.

Mike can’t help but wonder what she’s thinking right now. She’s been to his house exactly once before, and there are 23 fewer people this time around. Not to mention that grooming a teammate alone, at home, is just wrong on levels.

The razor blade is warm as it slowly travels over the planes of his face. Ginny ran it under hot water before she started. (“Hot-knife-through-butter principle.”) 

He’s impressed with her knowledge and steady hand, but he really shouldn’t be surprised. Baker doesn’t half-ass anything.

With her palm gently but firmly pressed against the side of his neck, and a flash of pink tongue at the corner of her mouth, his balls tighten involuntarily. “Stop it,” he internally chastises himself and shifts ever so slightly on the counter.

Fortunately, Baker seems oblivious to what’s happening in his pants. She hasn’t said anything in about 5 minutes, and he doesn’t speak for fear of breaking her concentration. So far, not a single nick and he is not about to fuck that up. 

He tries to remember the last time a woman spent this much time in his bathroom. His guests are usually gone before sunrise and they’re never in here long, anyway. Unless he’s fucking them in the shower. 

He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t thought about fucking Baker in his shower. And the showers at Petco. Hotel room showers. It’s a fantasy that travels well.

Mainly he just wants her naked and wet and pressed up against him. Hands full of her truly spectacular ass as he fucks up into—

Jesus, he feels bad for even _thinking_ this shit in front of her. But...he’s also not totally convinced the wanting is one-sided. He’s caught her staring when she doesn’t think anyone’s looking and she’s made a few off-color comments when they’re alone. Mike does know one thing, though: what he feels for her is more than physical. And that frustrates him and terrifies him in equal measure. 

“Do you trust me?” Ginny asks, quirking an eyebrow.

He’s been so lost in his own head that he didn’t even realize his face is now totally beard-free. She’s holding the razor mere millimeters from his neck and looking him square in the eye with this _expression_. It’s insolent and mildly threatening and sexy, and he’s so aroused he can feel it in his fucking fingernails. It takes everything in him not to reach out and touch her.

“I trust you,” he says, and his voice somehow sounds a lot calmer than he feels.

“Good,” she says with a crooked smile and his fingers flex. Baker then palms the top of his head, turns it a bit, and starts shaving just below his jawline. He watches for any changes in her expression that might belie the cool confidence she’s displayed so far, but nothing appears.

She then tips his head back with a forefinger and starts running the razor over his Adam’s apple toward his chin. He does his best not to swallow. A few more swipes up the right side of his neck and she stops. 

“All done,” she says triumphantly and stands back to assess her work. 

Pleased with what she sees, she wipes the leftover shaving cream from Lawson’s face and takes the towel from his shoulders. He pushes himself off the counter then and turns to look at himself in the mirror. He hasn't been clean-shaven in years.

“I feel naked,” he says, looking at Ginny in the mirror’s reflection. 

All she does is nod.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would never have gotten out of my head and onto a screen if it weren't for my girls Nik, Nikki, and Cierra. They're the real MVPs. 
> 
> And for the record, I have nothing against Mike Lawson's beard! I just think shaving scenes are sexy. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
